One Hand on the Devil
by Scarecrowqueen
Summary: The Bogeyman had always had a fondness for brutalizing lovely things. Written for a prompt on the kink meme. Pitch Black/Jack Frost implied, Bunnymund/Jack Frost. Please observe rating.


I do not own or make profit off of these characters.

Done as a fill for the ROTG kink meme, prompt is as follows:

Nightmare King Pitch fights a winning war against the few people and their guardians who still protect them, and captures one of their captains-the last Pooka.

Intrigued by this character and hoping to break his spirit, Pitch sends his pleasure slave to "play" with the Pooka.

Basically, a broken-spirited Jack is Pitch's obedient love slave, and Pitch makes him ride the Pooka right there in the middle of the throne room.

(this is for one shot format. For long fic, bonus points if the Pooka captain slowly breaks down the walls that Jack's built around himself, and coaxes out the spirited, clever, less subservient Jack he used to be)

* * *

The uneven brickwork of the floor he lays on digs harshly into his back, a nagging sensation in the back of his thoughts.

It had been over before he'd even known what hit him, really. One moment he was leading his squad against a contingent of the Nightmare King's Shadow Raiders, the next he was on the ground, reeling from a bleeding head wound and bound by manacles of darkest night. He drifted from consciousness twice by his count during his transport, the second time waking up as he was now; chained, laid out and as helpless as a lamb to the slaughter. Bunnymund would attempt to move to alleviate the discomfort, but he is held down by wisps of blackest shadow, ephemeral things that should be inconsequential if judged by appearance but have bound and stretched him like bands of solid steel. He tries anyway though, the last bit of fragile hope in his chest warring with the despair, and noticeably flagging when a cautious wiggle results in nothing more than a greater agitation of the stone's edge into his shoulder blades.

It certainly didn't give the boy above him pause at all. Despite Bunny's squirming, the rise and fall of the boy's slender body is as rhythmic as ever, sending pulses of unwanted pleasure through Bunny's whole being at smooth, regular intervals.

The boy fucked like a machine, if machines knew anything of eroticism or grace. Well-rehearsed but clearly passionless, every motion was perfectly controlled, every roll of his hips designed to bring maximum pleasure to both participants. He had hardly hesitated once the order had been given, crawling naked from the foot of his master and kneeling over the prone figure, his eyes set in a dead-mans stare somewhere off to the side. He had taken only the barest of seconds to negotiate the Pooka's unfamiliar anatomy, carding small fingers through thick fur in a gross parody of a lover's caress, and never once looking straight at the body he manipulated. Bunny had, from the moment of his capture resolved himself to resistance against any form of torture, but this profanity was nothing he could fight against. Indeed no defence he had could have held up to the boy's experienced touch. While substantially colder than any lover he'd ever taken, the boy had a way of working the captive Pooka's reluctant flesh with both hands and mouth, bringing him to full arousal in moments. He had been further surprised when the small, slim boy had mounted him with no apparent hesitation and nothing but his own chilly saliva as lubrication, taking what should have been an uncomfortably large cock like it was an everyday occurrence.

Which, Bunny thought with creeping horror, was probably very, very likely. The Bogeyman had always had a fondness for brutalizing lovely things.

The sobering thought did nothing to curb his rising pleasure however, and so, with gritted teeth and blunt claws dug into his own palms, Bunny steadied his self for the inevitable orgasm he could even now feel building within him. Above him the boy seemed to sense his growing need, impaling himself faster in short, sharp jerks, eyes still straight ahead and unfocused in the middle-distance. Every cry from the blueish lips fell with perfect cadence, a filthy prayer offered to the witnesses that surrounded them. On all sides the duo were surrounded by hungry yellow eyes watched from the formless shadows, tittering with sick lust and malicious glee. To the left was the massive stone throne, a gothic monstrosity to cradle the monster himself. Pitch Black looked on, golden eyes gazing down the length of an aquiline nose at the obscenity spread before him. From the corner of Bunny's eye his placid face suggested boredom, until one noticed the naked hunger in his heated stare, malevolent eyes never leaving the pale, pristine expanse of the boy's milk white skin.

Things were happening faster now, the sibilant murmurs from the corners of the room rising in tempo to match the boy's quickened actions. Bunny found himself powerless to resist, his own hips flexing upwards with what little motion was allowed to him by his restraints, unable to prevent his own body's betrayal. The boy's cries grew louder, high little keening sounds on every downward thrust. For the first time since climbing on, the boy's hands ceased their exploitation of his own nipples and erection. Instead, they moved to brace himself on Bunny's broad chest as he leaned forward, the cool contact spreading little swirls of frost onto Bunny's fur while the youth brought their faces intimately close, making solid eye contact for the only time since this whole atrocity had begun. The change in angle had Bunny seeing stars, entire constellations of them like firecrackers in the back of his brain as he went screaming over the knife-edge of ecstasy. And what a climax it was, to his immense shame; toes curling, hands clenching, hips moving of their own accord, and a sound like a helpless bellow wrenching itself from him without any permission from his higher brain.

Bunnymund's eyes however, well, his eyes never closed, despite his desire to see anything in that instant but perfect ice-blue iris's staring back, blank and empty and cold.


End file.
